


Fire Against Ice

by heartsdesire456



Series: Fire Against Ice (the series) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Mention of Past Drug Abuse, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsdesire456/pseuds/heartsdesire456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Greg Lestrade knew Sherlock Holmes had an older brother from the beginning. He had warned Lestrade he might be kidnapped by his older brother, a man with a minor position in the government, just to be nosy. Lestrade had actually been curious about what this mysterious brother could be like, so he was admittedly disappointed when he was never kidnapped but rather found himself receiving emails from a classified source every so often instead.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It wasn’t until years later that he finally met the mysterious older brother. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Against Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Sherlock fiction (Written dozens of fics in various other fandoms since 2007, but never Sherlock) so bear with me here. Also, there are a few things to keep in mind as you are:
> 
> -This story doesn't detail much of Sherlock and John's season 1 or season 2 adventures.  
> -Some details are twisted to fit the story from seasons 1 and 2.  
> -Mostly Lestrade-Centric POV.  
> -Spans timefram from John shooting the Cabbie to just after Reichenbach Fall  
> -No character death warning because there is a sequel planned in which we explore Sherlock's 'not being dead' thing.

Greg Lestrade knew Sherlock Holmes had an older brother from the beginning. When he met the young man- high as a kite, spluttering and slurring on about how the murderer it showed the police had caught in the news was not the murderer but rather the victim’s lover- he had offered him a chance to stay on his couch until he got himself clean. The promise of being consulted on the cases that stumped Lestrade and his team (he had just gained his position of Detective Inspector and really didn’t want more unsolved cases under his belt than necessary) was enough to convince Sherlock to kick the drug habit. While he was staying with Lestrade, working through withdrawal, he had warned Lestrade he might be kidnapped by his older brother, a man with a minor position in the government, just to be nosy. Lestrade had actually been curious about what this mysterious brother could be like, so he was admittedly disappointed when he was never kidnapped but rather found himself receiving emails from a classified source every so often instead.

It wasn’t until years later, after four relapses that Lestrade had to help Sherlock through, that he finally met the mysterious older brother. 

Sherlock had just left the scene, leaving behind a dead serial killer as he walked off into the night with a mysteriously quiet and innocuous doctor named John Watson that seemed to have materialized out of nowhere and embedded himself into Sherlock’s life. Lestrade had never seen Sherlock so much as speak to someone he didn’t necessarily have to for any reason other than to mock them and he was almost tempted to think that this John Watson was a _friend_ by the way he and Sherlock interacted. They had just rounded the corner when a beautiful, shiny black car slid up beside Lestrade. He turned to glance back just in time to see the window roll down and reveal an attractive woman sitting on the other side. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, could you come with me please?” she asked and he raised an eyebrow as he leaned against the door, looking in the window. “At the request of the British government.”

Lestrade was curious and it wasn’t like nobody saw him leaving so he took a chance and entered the vehicle. He slid into the seat and looked at the woman next to him, noticing how she tapped at her phone incessantly. “Any chance I’ll get told where I’m going?” he asked and she looked up and shook her head before her eyes went right back to her phone. It was only a short drive, no more than fifteen minutes, before they pulled into an abandoned parking garage in disrepair. His instincts kicked in and he looked around, hand on his phone in his pocket, ready to call for help any moment. Sergeant Donovan was number three on his speed dial just in case of emergencies. Everybody on his team had somebody else to call in case of emergencies. 

“Where am I?” he asked, only to start when the door was opened. He looked up and saw a man in a suit standing there, holding the door. As he climbed out, he noticed the bulge in the man’s jacket, feeling his blood running colder and colder as he walked the way the man directed, an eye on him at all times. When he got to the corner, he turned to see a man sitting in a chair having a cup of tea in the middle of the parking deck. “Is this some kind of joke?” Lestrade asked as he walked towards the man, his hand still in his pocket. 

As he neared the man in the chair, he noticed an empty chair sitting just in front of him. “Detective Inspector, do have a seat,” the man offered in a very smooth, lofty voice. Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he took in his designer suit and posh accent, immediately remembering the request was made by someone in the government. 

“I’ll stand, thanks,” he said and the man rolled his eyes in a fashion that made Lestrade curious with its familiarity. 

“Why do I even bother with common courtesy anymore?” the man asked rhetorically before setting his teacup in the saucer, handing it to the man behind him without looking. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, you’re probably wondering why you’re here-“

“Of course I bloody well am,” Lestrade scoffed. “So get to it, eh?”

The man smiled a force, cold smile and nodded. “You see, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I have an… interest in a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you could say. I was wondering what you could tell me about his new associate.”

Lestrade suddenly smirked. “Well, you’re clearly a relative of his- uncle perhaps- so why don’t you ask him yourself?”

The man’s cold, calculated expression slipped and his eyes widened before he quickly schooled his face back into its mask. “How did you know-“

“You have the same sassy eye roll as Sherlock Holmes and a very similar posh tone of voice. Not to mention that’s the same designer suit as most of Sherlock’s clothes and you are also a fairly tall, thin bloke,” he said, then smirked at the raised eyebrow. “I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but I didn’t become a DI for nothing, mate,” he said, and the man couldn’t hide a slightly amused tilt of his lips.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he offered, then narrowed his eyes. “And brother, actually. Dear me, if I pass as his uncle I really am getting old,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. 

Lestrade smiled. “Nah, younger than me, I reckon.” He put took his hand off his phone and pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Right so you want to know about that John Watson man?” he asked and Mycroft inclined his head.

“Precisely. My brother and I…” He hummed. “Well, we don’t get on quite as well as I would like,” he said in an overly sweet voice. “Nevertheless, I do worry so about his wellbeing. I kidnapped Mr. Watson not long ago at all and for someone who apparently met my brother very, very recently, he not only is living with him but is rather questionably loyal to Sherlock.”

Lestrade chuckled. “I’d say, he shot a man for him just earlier,” he said and Mycroft once again broke his cool, composed exterior and this time, his jaw actually dropped a split second before he fixed his mask again. “Oh come now, that’s less impressive than figuring out you were a relative of Sherlock’s,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Sherlock described his new companion to the very details as he was deducing what type of person the shooter was. And like I said,” he started, shrugged. “I’m not a DI for nothing.”

Mycroft hummed. “Indeed.” He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way, clearly buying time before speaking. “Detective Inspector, my brother does not form social bonds with anyone. My brother barely adheres to familial bonds, as you can see now. I want to know everything I can about John Watson,” he said and Lestrade shrugged.

“Maybe he fancies him? Can’t imagine what type would put up with Sherlock Holmes, but he’s not too hard on the eyes, that Watson chap. And if he’s willing to shoot a man over Sherlock, clearly he’s right up Sherlock’s alley,” he suggested and Mycroft’s lip curled as if he’d smelled something bad.

“My brother has never ‘fancied’-“ he said as if the world was beneath him- “another human being in his life. Sherlock finds emotions to be useless. He considers himself a sociopath. Clearly there is something else going on here.”

Lestrade chuckled around a smile. “That’s a shame. Cheekbones like that and doesn’t even use them,” he said, shaking his head. He eyed Mycroft and winked. “Clearly good looks are genetic,” he said and Mycroft’s face flickered between shock and amusement before setting on calculating. 

“You’ll keep an eye on John Watson for me, won’t you Detective Inspector?” he asked and Lestrade gave him a grin.

“Anything for a pretty face,” he said, giving Mycroft a flirtatious grin before turning to follow the suited man back to the car, leaving a very amused and confused Holmes behind him.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
It became a regular ordeal. Every few weeks, usually at least once a month, more or less, a black car would show up as Lestrade was walking to work, leaving a crime scene, or even popping down to the shops. He’d be taken to some remote place where he would be asked about Sherlock, his cases, and John Watson. Every time, Mycroft Holmes was just as cool, composed, and exceedingly snooty as the last, though Lestrade took great pleasure in saying things that managed to make him slip his mask for a moment.

It was the seventh time this happened that Lestrade climbed into the car only to find himself sitting beside Mycroft himself. “Well hello there,” he said, then smirked. “Gotta say, as much as I appreciate the pretty girls, you aren’t so bad a greeting either.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes- Lestrade was really amused at the trait of excessive eye rolling he and his brother seemed to possess- and tutted. “You are truly insufferable, Lestrade.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Admit it, I make you smile,” he goaded and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Smiling, I don’t _smile_ -“

“You’ve smiled for me,” Lestrade teased, feeling a bit smug when Mycroft glared at the back of the drivers head in an almost _pouty_ manner. “Jesus, to be at odds, you really are your brother made over,” he assessed and Mycroft hummed.

“Not sure if that’s a compliment to my intellect or an insult to my sanity,” he said an Lestrade snickered.

“Well, you do kidnap me regularly,” he offered, only to feel a pleasant warmth when he was rewarded with one of those smiles that Mycroft swore he didn’t show. “See, you’re smiling!” 

Mycroft instantly grimaced. “God knows why, you are nearly as annoying as my brother seems to find you. And to explain why we may have… similarities,” he said, looking as though the idea was frankly alarming. “My brother and I grew up in a wealthy household with a father who liked his work, a mother who liked her drink, and as much as I would like to have my brother’s detachment, I have to admit, as a boy who had grown up alone, even I wasn’t able to ignore my dear brother.” Lestrade noticed a faraway look in his eyes and was struck for a moment with how human he looked. “I’m ten years older than Sherlock therefore from the time he was old enough to run around and talk- very early, actually, he was having complex conversations by two years old- he followed me around and I hadn’t the heart to turn him away when I knew nobody else would pay him any attention.” There was a sad smile on his face as he looked out the window. “I can only somewhat be to blame for Sherlock as he is because I indulged in everything about him, every wild eccentricity in him as a boy, and then went away to school when he was still very young. Nobody else bothered to try and teach him normal society’s right and wrong in my absence, ergo he ended up even more out of touch than I did,” he explained.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft, really looked, and came to a realization. “You really do all of this because you care about him, don’t you? It isn’t all ‘keeping him in line’ and ‘keeping him out of the papers’ like I figured, is it?” he asked.

Mycroft made a somewhat pinched expression and fiddled with his cuffs. “Of course I care about him, he is my brother after all. As much as I often wished I could divorce myself from the sentiment that I only seem to possess for my brother and not any others I come into contact with, I do fall prey to the human vice of fraternal love.”

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll go out on a limb and say you don’t have a husband and kids,” he said and Mycroft turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“I don’t, but it isn’t often many people first assume I _would_ have a husband,” he said and Lestrade smirked.

“No man dressed that well doesn’t fancy their own gender, mate,” he said, then grinned. “Plus the way you check out my arse when I’m walking away says something-“

“I beg your pardon-“

“I have eyes, you know!” Lestrade said, snickering at the offended look on Mycroft’s pink face. “Besides, you could’ve gone back to emailing, clearly you like seeing me in person then,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, you’re one of the more attractive men that stares at my bum, that’s for sure,” he continued, loving the lovely shade of red Mycroft’s face was approaching, even if his expression had been schooled back into his emotionless mask.

“I do apologize if I have inadvertently made you uncomfortable, Detective Inspector-“

Lestrade waved a hand. “Oh rubbish, you can go back to calling me my name right now,” he said, then shrugged. “You’re welcome to ‘Greg’ if you’d like. I don’t go around calling you ‘Holmes’ anymore, do I?” he asked and Mycroft inclined his head politely. He chuckled, looking out the window. “Besides, why would you apologize for ‘making me uncomfortable’ over a few glance when I’ve been flirting outright since we met? I’m definitely not apologizing for that,” he said, shooting Mycroft a glance.

Mycroft harrumphed softly as he glanced out the window. “Well, you are rather forward but I pride myself in propriety- rather unlike my brother- therefore find it necessary to apologize for straying eyes.”

Lestrade chuckled. “You are so posh it’s _adorable_ ,” he teased and Mycroft rolled his eyes once more.

Mycroft offered Lestrade a smile as the pulled to a stop. “I do believe we’re finished for the day, Gregory,” he offered and Lestrade smirked.

“Gregory, I like it,” he said, winking at Mycroft as he opened the door and slid out. “I hope to see your pretty face again soon, Mycroft!” he announced loudly as he shut the door and waved.

It wasn’t until he was back inside his office that he realized they hadn’t discussed Sherlock and John’s comings and goings at all this time.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
After a swift refusal of help from Sherlock, Lestrade found himself shoved out onto the stoop of 221 Baker Street, unceremoniously shoved out and the door locked behind him. “Bastard!” he huffed, straightening his jacket with a grumble, only to frown when a black car slid up to the curb right beside him. He raised an eyebrow when the door opened and Mycroft climbed out. 

Mycroft gave him an amused little smirk. “Gregory, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, nodding to him as he fiddled with his umbrella.

Lestrade chuckled. “Afternoon, Mycroft,” he said, then nodded at the house. “I hope you don’t take it personally when I finally crack and kill your brother,” he said and Mycroft sighed, shaking his head as he looked up at the empty windows of 221B. 

“Don’t tell me he’s being childish yet again. It’s only been a week since his last tantrum,” he said and Lestrade snorted.

“John went to see his sister for five days and apparently that means Sherlock is refusing my cases. _Cases_!” he stressed, shooting looks up again. “The bloody hell has gotten into him?” he grumbled and Mycroft hummed, eyeing Lestrade.

“Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to join me next door at the moment?” Mycroft asked rather unexpectedly. “This is terribly rude of me, but if my brother isn’t going to cooperate, perhaps you could give me some insight into his mood today over a cup of tea,” he suggested and Lestrade glanced at Speedy’s and then shrugged.

“Yeah, why not. I’ve got another hour or two before anybody expects me back from Sherlock’s,” he said, the corners of his mouth upturning a bit as he looked Mycroft over. “Besides, I could always make an exception when it means spending more time with such an attractive bloke.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and refused to answer, though Lestrade saw the way his ears colored. “Well, come along then,” he said, leading the way towards the door.

When they were seated, they ended up ordering coffees and Lestrade ordered a piece of cake. “So, Sherlock being in a mood, it does have to do with John being out of town, right?” Lestrade asked after the waitress left them.

Mycroft cringed. “Unfortunately, it would seem my brother has become somewhat… dependent on Dr. Watson. He has somehow come to convince himself his friend makes him see things better.”

Lestrade smiled. “That’s Sherlock-speak for smitten, isn’t it?” he asked and Mycroft gave him a stern look. “What?! He is, though! I’ve seen him waiting for results at the Yard and end up staring at John for three quarters of an hour like he was trying to figure him out or something. Sherlock is properly enamored, isn’t he?” He shrugged. “I know they aren’t sleeping together but that doesn’t stop Sherlock fancying him.”

“Gregory, my brother does not ‘fancy’ people, as I’ve said to you before,” Mycroft corrected. “And of course they aren’t sleeping together, that’s distinctly not Sherlock’s style. He doesn’t know how to hold a civilized conversation with another human being, do you really think he’s going to end up in a non-platonic relationship with anybody?” he challenged and Lestrade raised an eyebrow, only to hold his tongue as their coffees and his cake was brought to the table.

He grinned when he saw there were two spoons and nodded at the other as he took the one closest to him. “Have some, it’s a large cake,” he said and Mycroft eyed the confection longingly but kept his long, slender fingers away from the spoon. 

“I really shouldn’t-“

Lestrade scoffed. “Come on, have some cake.” He slid it closer to Mycroft and smirked playfully. “Fine then!” He took a scoop and offered it out to Mycroft, who jerked away from the offending spoon as if it were poison. 

“Gregory what on earth are you doing?!”

Lestrade grinned. “You either take a spoon or take it off mine,” he said, gesturing again.

Mycroft groaned but took up the spoon on his side. “You are insufferable,” he accused.

Lestrade just smiled triumphantly when Mycroft took a bite of the cake. “Good huh?” he asked, admiring the somewhat blissful expression on Mycroft’s face as he stared at the cake he’d taken a bite of. “As I was saying,” he started, distracting him. “Sherlock’s all off-kilter cause his favorite toy has gone missing and it’s driving me and the rest of the Yard bloody insane.” He hummed, taking another bite of cake. “Maybe we need to get him laid,” he suggested and Mycroft gave him a flat look. Lestrade smirked. “What? He isn’t my brother, I have no problems considering his sex life.”

“I can assure you my brother doesn’t _have_ a sex life, Gregory, don’t be preposterous,” he scoffed.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “As odd as he may be, you can’t really expect me to believe a bloke that young isn’t getting some at least occasionally, can you?” he asked and Mycroft made a face. 

“If you must know, my brother has had exactly one relationship in his life- even I’m not sure it was sexual, it was the young man who got him into drugs in University- and is convinced sex is beneath him.” He took another small bite of the cake and shrugged. “What else could you really expect? He thinks food and sleep are incidental and is able to go a week without either, if anyone can conquer their own libido wouldn’t it be him?” he asked and Lestrade chuckled.

“Reckon that’s true,” he allowed. “Pretty sure if he and John ever do have a tumble he’ll probably end up never leaving the flat again, if we’re looking at it from that angle,” he said, snickering. “Addictive personality and all.”

Mycroft cringed. “Thank you so much, Gregory, for an extended conversation about my dear little brother and sex,” he grumbled and Lestrade smirked.

“Well, we could talk about why you keep shying away from the lovely chocolate cake when you look positively orgasmic every time you take a bite,” he challenged and Mycroft’s ears pinkened once again as he looked down. 

“I do not look- look-“ He made a face. “And anyhow, if you must know, I’m on a diet,” he said and Lestrade eyed him curiously.

“No offense, mate, but you’re kind of tall and thin,” he said and Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Yes, and I would prefer staying that way. It is an unfortunate side effect of becoming an old man, a growing waistline, and I prefer to stave it off,” he said and Lestrade shrugged.

“Whatever you say, Mycroft. I, however, think you’re rather fit,” he offered, smirking. “You’re especially attractive when you’re enjoying chocolate cake,” he said, winking at him. “Besides, old man my arse. You’ve got to be younger than me and I’m comfortably middle aged.”

Mycroft hummed. “You don’t look it. Silver hair aside, your face is still rather youthful,” he said, chuckling ruefully. “No thinning hair and twenty plus years of stress writing lines across your face like me.”

Lestrade sat back, putting down his coffee as he looked Mycroft over. “Alright then. I know you’ve likely read my file so you know that I’ll be fifty next year. Am I allowed to guess yours?” he asked and Mycroft waved a hand as if to say ‘go ahead’. Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he looked him over. “Forty-five.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You knew that already. You know Sherlock’s age and I told you I was ten years older,” he accused and Lestrade chuckled.

“Actually, I should’ve known that, but I actually don’t know Sherlock’s exact age. Mid-thirties is all I know,” he admitted. He chuckled. “Sherlock isn’t really one to act his age,” he added and Mycroft actually smiled and laughed softly.

“Very true. He has very juvenile moments, doesn’t he?” he asked and Lestrade snickered.

“John calls him the world’s only consulting toddler behind his back,” he admitted and Mycroft let out a shocking, hearty laugh that set Lestrade to laughing as well.

“Does he really?” he asked, clearly very amused. “As much as I worry, I really do admire John Watson sometimes,” he joked and Lestrade grinned.

“Well, he puts up with everybody’s least favorite genius, it is an admirable feat,” he agreed and Mycroft settled back, smiling at Lestrade in a more relaxed manner than Lestrade had ever seen him. Lestrade bit his lip and glanced down at his hands. “You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you laugh before,” he said and Mycroft looked up, eyes slightly widened.

“I don’t think I can remember the last time I laughed,” he admitted, looking somewhat surprised at himself. “Oh dear that is a little unprofessional of me, isn’t it?” he asked and Lestrade looked at him in amusement.

“We’re having coffee and sharing a piece of cake, it was already a bit unprofessional wouldn’t you say?” he countered and Mycroft flushed slightly, looking away.

“No, I daresay it isn’t terribly professional,” he agreed softly.

Lestrade gave him a small, more private smile. “I like your laugh, Mycroft. You should use it more often,” he said and Mycroft turned even more pink. “I also adore how easily you blush, Mr. Holmes. Could you be more intriguing?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the table. “I think I’m going to have to work out ways to make you blush more often.”

Mycroft gave him a slightly alarmed look. “I would prefer you don’t.”

Lestrade just grinned as he stood up and pulled out his wallet. “No chance,” he said, then nodded to him. “Good seeing you, Mycroft. Hope to see you again soon.” He turned and went to their waitress to pay their tab before Mycroft could, waving to Mycroft before he turned and walked out, leaving a very confused man sitting at the table they had shared.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade was changing his shirt after Sherlock had managed to send him on a chase that ended in him falling into mud when a knock sounded at his door. He cursed and fumbled on his clean shirt, holding it shut as the door opened moments later. “Sally, I told you I was changing,” he said, only to look up and see Mycroft standing in the doorway. “Oh, Mycroft! Sorry,” he said, chuckling. “Donovan has been pestering me all morning,” he said, nodding at the chair across from his desk. “Come in,” he said.

Lestrade walked past Mycroft to shut the door behind him, only to turn back and see Mycroft raising an eyebrow at the muddy clothes in the floor. “Rough morning?” he asked and Lestrade chuckled as he headed past.

“Your brother,” he said, leaning against his desk to look at Mycroft. Mycroft opened his mouth to answer only to stop and raise an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Mycroft used his ever-present umbrella to push Lestrade’s still-unbuttoned shirt aside, giving him a pointed and surprised look at the leather gun holster under his shirt. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Gregory, but you aren’t meant to have a _gun_ , are you?” he asked and Lestrade cringed, tugging his shirt away from the umbrella that held it open.

“Yeah well, neither is John Watson,” he said pointedly. He stood up and tugged his shirt off again, laying it across his desk as he removed the gun holster and hung it in the cabinet behind his desk. He pulled the gun out and unloaded it before putting in a lock box in the bottom of the cabinet. “I haven’t found a use for it yet, but unfortunately your brother has a way of rushing into things without thinking about criminals being armed. I figure he has a death wish, but I for one don’t,” he said with a smirk as he turned back, shutting the cabinet behind him. 

Mycroft chuckled, clearly amused. “You know, I could report you for that,” he suggested and Greg smirked at the way Mycroft’s eyes lingered on the details of torso that his tight vest revealed.

“Something tells me you won’t though,” Lestrade said as he walked around to lean on his desk, looking down at Mycroft again. He didn’t bother putting his shirt back on. “How can I help you today, then?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest with a smug sense of satisfaction as Mycroft’s eyes followed the movement.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered up to meet Lestrade’s and he forced a calm expression on his face. “It is actually concerning my brother. You see, I kidnapped Dr. Watson just earlier while my brother was no doubt leading you on a chase around London and he informed me that Sherlock suspects this case may involve something… of my caliber,” he explained. “I was hoping you could tell me more about the situation, seeing as my brother only focuses on what he finds relevant. It has come to my attention through what details I could piece together of John’s version of Sherlock’s account that it may be a matter that is related to a missing government employee, not just a drugs smuggling ring,” he explained. 

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Well there is a missing person, but from what I know, he works in a shop. I won’t bother asking you to expand upon what you mean by ‘your caliber’ but I can’t say I’ve seen anything to suggest he’s involved in the government.” He smirked. “Besides, what happened to ‘minor position’?” he prodded and Mycroft rolled his eyes just as he expected.

“You’re not an idiot, I know you know more than I wish you did,” Mycroft said, standing. “Which is why I’m hoping you will keep in mind that there could possibly be something deeper going on in this case,” he said, giving Lestrade a meaningful look. It was ruined, however, when his eyes slid (most likely involuntarily) down to Lestrade’s chest and arms. “It’s a matter of national security after all,” he said, only to immediately slide into a completely different line of thought. “Dear lord, how do you have a chest and shoulders like that at your age, your shirts did NOT give the impression-“ He stood suddenly, eyes widening and face burning as he looked up and met Lestrade’s eyes. “I am so sorry, I have no idea what came over me,” he said suddenly, looking away quickly.

Lestrade smirked, standing up. “Just because I’m a DI doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep in shape,” he said in a lower voice than necessary. He stepped closer to Mycroft, who was studiously avoiding his eyes. He reached down and caught Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft flinched slightly, but Lestrade ignored it, bringing Mycroft’s hand up to his chest. He squeezed his fingers before shifting his hold, pressing Mycroft’s long, slender hand flat to his chest. “Look at me, Mycroft,” he said softly, smiling when Mycroft’s eyes flicked up to his. He watched Mycroft swallow hard and moved his hand away so that Mycroft was touching him of his own volition.

Mycroft’s breath grew slightly labored and his eyes dilated somewhat as he looked into Lestrade’s eyes. His hand slid across Greg’s chest, up across his exposed collarbone, along his shoulder. “Gregory,” he choked out and Lestrade reached up to cup his jaw, the curve of his palm resting against Mycroft’s throat so that the flutter of his pulse throbbed against his skin. He let out a ragged breath and Lestrade leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss. 

The strangled sound he made into Lestrade’s mouth was coupled by his hand clenching around Greg’s upper arm. Lestrade teased his lips apart with a teasing flicker of his tongue before pulling away. “Stop fighting and just feel, Mycroft,” he whispered and Mycroft let out a soft moan as he leaned into Lestrade’s hold on his face.

“Gregory,” he breathed and it was all it took for Lestrade to clutch at his waist, pulling their bodies flush as he dove in to kiss Mycroft deeply. Mycroft moaned more loudly than he expected but Lestrade soaked it in, pulling Mycroft fully into his arms. Mycroft responded frantically, both hands clutching at Lestrade’s shoulders, fingers sliding across his bared, toned arms delightedly. “Gregory please!” he gasped and Lestrade smirked, lips sliding down his throat.

“Already ahead of you,” he said as he moved his hands to shove Mycroft’s coat off, neither of them caring at all as it crumpled to the floor, landing in a heap.

Neither did they care when the rest of their clothes joined the pile.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade hummed, leaning back against his desk. “That was… unexpected,” he said and Mycroft nodded beside him.

“Cannot say I saw my morning going this way.” He glanced over at Lestrade and they both burst into rather out of character giggles. “Gregory, what the hell have you done to me?” he asked and Lestrade smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’d say,” he started in a low voice, turning to face Mycroft, whose smile slid off his face. “Someone- no idea who- has quite possibly-“ He leaned in and pressed his lips to the acromion of Mycroft’s bare shoulder, eyes never leaving his. “Shagged your brains out,” he said and Mycroft whimpered slightly as Lestrade kissed across his shoulder to the base of his neck. “Probably what you needed. All the tension is gone from your shoulders for the first time since I’ve met you,” he whispered against Mycroft’s throat.

Mycroft shivered and tilted his head away. “Gregory,” he moaned softly. He turned back and kissed Lestrade, only to have them startled apart by a rapid knocking at the door.

“SIR?! SIR WE HAVE A BODY!” a voice called, and Lestrade jumped up, eyes wide.

“Don’t come in, I’m changing!” he shouted, then looked down at Mycroft, who was scrambling for his clothes. “Shit.”

Mycroft hopped up, already tugging on his trousers. “Don’t stop and look, get dressed!” he hissed and Lestrade started snatching up clothes. They both rushed around, cursing as they fought their way into their clothes.

“Right,” Lestrade said, buttoning his shirt hastily before grabbing his coat. “Sorry to run, sexy, but I have to be off,” he said, darting in to kiss Mycroft again while he was fussing with his tie. “You wait out a few minutes and then nobody will notice you leaving,” he said, flattening out his hair and taking a breath before walking out, shutting the door behind him before anybody could glance back in.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade was standing back, speaking to one of the sergeants about how far back to keep the perimeter when he noticed John walking up. He turned and smiled, sending the young man off before walking over to meet him. “Sherlock got anything?” he asked and John shook his head.

“I’ve been sent off because he says my jumper sleeves are uneven and it’s putting him off.” He chuckled. “He’s certifiable that one,” he said and Lestrade chuckled.

“Well, obviously. But it’s half of what makes him so smart, I guess,” he said, tugging at his own shirt sleeves. He glanced down to see why they felt so odd only to stop and stare when he finally noticed that he was wearing a pale lavender shirt. The shirt he’d put on that morning to hide his gun holster was blue. He thought back and his heart skipped a beat when he realized he’d managed to put on Mycroft’s shirt in the scramble to get dressed. He looked down at the cuffs that were slightly long and absently pushed them up some. He wiggled and was surprised to find it was only a bit too loose. _Diet my arse_.

“You alright?” John asked and Lestrade looked up quickly. “You’re fiddling with your sleeves and smirking,” he said, only to frown as he looked at Lestrade’s shirt. “Hold on,” he said curiously, stepping around to look at him front on. “Is that-“ he looked up at Lestrade, then really looked at his shirt. “Is that even your shirt?” he asked.

Greg froze when he remembered what Mycroft had said about having abducted John earlier that morning. “Yeah, of course it is!” he said quickly, only to cringe when the sleeve slid past his palm some.

John looked at the cuff links and glanced up. “Since when do you wear cuff links,” he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. “I’m sorry, I must be going mad, but if I didn’t know better I would think you were wearing the shirt I saw Mycroft Holmes wearing earlier,” he said, then laughed at himself. “God I need sleep, huh?” he asked, only to glance up again and see Greg giving him an uneasy look. “Oh my God it is,” he said, then frowned. “Hold on, why the hell are you wearing Mycroft’s shirt? I wasn’t aware you even knew Sherlock’s brother.”

Greg thought about lying but decided not to bother. “Ah hell, alright yes, I’m wearing Mycroft’s shirt,” he admitted, shoving the sleeves up again. “Didn’t do it on purpose though so don’t blame me for looking daft with a shirt this long,” he said defensively.

John nodded. After a few moments he frowned and tilted his head again. “No sorry, _why_ are you wearing Mycroft’s shirt? Makes sense you know him, I get that, but how does that explain you wearing the shirt I saw him wearing about four hours ago?” he asked.

Lestrade just smirked, looking out at the crime scene instead of down at John. “Well, it isn’t my fault somebody decided to go and discover a body before we had gotten dressed,” he answered.

John’s jaw dropped and he looked up at him. “Wait, please tell me you didn’t just say ‘gotten dressed’… also weren’t you working already?”

Lestrade gave him a smug look. “Well, what good is having your own office if you don’t have a good shag on the desk?” he asked and John looked as if he’d been slapped.

“WHAT?!” he cried, then shuddered, waving a hand. “No, nope, don’t answer! Really don’t want to know. Bloody hell, I really wish I’d gone to work today,” John said, turning to walk off. “Just dear God don’t let Sherlock know,” he said as he walked away.

Lestrade chuckled to himself. “Like I want _that_ conversation!”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade felt his phone buzz as he made his way back to the office, ignoring the stairs in favor of the elevator. He opened a text from an unknown number and smiled.

_I just had to meet with the ambassador of Azerbaijan wearing a shirt that is too small and is cheap and wrinkled.- MH_

He snickered and opened a text once he got to his office and hung up his coat. 

_Not my fault I grabbed the wrong shirt. Can’t be too small, yours isn’t exactly swallowing me._

He had just started on the paperwork from the morning’s murder when he got another text.

_I would love to speak to you about this morning. A car will be waiting outside your flat at eight this evening. I’m afraid that is the earliest I can contact you.- MH_

Lestrade chuckled in amusement.

_You and your brother sign your texts the same, did you know?_

_Tonight at eight, Detective Inspector-MH_  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade decided not to bother with a tie and left his top buttons unbuttoned as he grabbed his jacket. He looked down at the street just in time to see a long, shiny black car slide up outside his building. He grabbed Mycroft’s shirt and his wallet before heading downstairs. He was rather expecting another pretty girl to be in the car when he got there only to find Mycroft himself sitting in the other seat.

“Good evening, Gregory,” Mycroft said and Lestrade chuckled.

“Evening,” he said, then offered Mycroft the shirt in his hand. “Figure you might like this back. Besides, lavender isn’t my color,” he said and Mycroft chuckled.

“Blue does look rather nice with your complexion,” he noted and Lestrade smirked.

He looked over at Mycroft, who was fidgeting. “So, this morning,” he started and Mycroft hummed, inclining his head. “What exactly happened?” he asked, still curious.

Mycroft sent him a slightly amused glance before facing forward again. “I should think as a middle aged divorced man you should recognize when you have a sexual encounter,” he said and Lestrade let out a laugh at Mycroft’s sense of sarcasm.

“Yeah, I got that bit, I was more referring to how we got from talking about your brother to shagging on my desk,” he said, looking over at him. “Not that I’m complaining, you understand. It was…” he trailed off and hummed as he remembered their encounter. “Extremely good, to be a spur of the moment quickie.”

Mycroft sighed. “I honestly don’t know how to explain myself this morning, Gregory. There are no words other than to admit that I am only human and honestly hadn’t expected you to look that good wearing nothing but your vest,” he said and Lestrade smirked smugly as he looked out the window. “It would also be fair to admit I haven’t exactly had a lover in many years. One only has so much self-control when faced with an attractive man who is clearly interested.”

Lestrade glanced over. “Really? I mean I haven’t exactly been out dating since I got divorced a little over a year ago but _years_?” he asked and Mycroft offered him a rueful smile.

“Surely you can understand the sacrifices of a personal life one who has my position would have to make?” He sniffed. “It’s quite obvious. I work with diplomats and royalty and politicians from all time zones and in all time zones. My brother is not the only one who goes days on end without sleep for his work, you know. Exactly how conducive to a relationship do you think that is?” he asked and Lestrade chuckled sadly.

“Tell me about it, mate. I’m running around chasing murders and working crime scenes all hours with little time off. There’s a reason my ex-wife started running around with other men,” he admitted with a sad smile. “Not excusing her, she was a lying whore, but I imagine if I’d had more time for her and the kids she would’ve had more incentive to be faithful,” he said, shrugging as if to say ‘what can you do’. 

Mycroft looked at him. “That was one of the reasons I was taken aback by your… interest in me. As far as I knew, you had been married to a woman for fifteen years and had two children. Not exactly suggestive of an inclination for other men,” he said and Lestrade smirked.

“I went to Uni too, mate,” he said, winking somewhat lecherously. 

Mycroft actually gave him a genuine smile as he shook his head. “You never fail to amuse me, Gregory,” he said and Lestrade turned to face him.

“So what happens now?” he asked seriously. “We’ve established we’re both incredibly busy men with little free time, after all. We have somewhat of a working relationship even if we do clearly enjoy a good shag between the two of us,” he pointed out.

Mycroft hummed, eyeing him studiously as he thought. “I’m often unreachable for entire days at a time. I’ve been known to go as long as physically possible without sleep. I often have to disappear without warning if a situation arises.” He looked up at Lestrade. “Could you handle that?” he asked curiously.

Lestrade shrugged. “Mine isn’t as dramatic, but I often sleep in my office and don’t return home for more than enough time for a shower. I’ll spend entire evenings doing paperwork quite often. I don’t really have ‘hours’ as crime rarely sleeps. I am often unable to get away no matter what if we’re on the trail of a criminal. I nearly get killed quite often, to boot,” he added. “You think you could deal with that?” he asked and the corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up.

“If we were to… attempt something between us, we would often go days without much contact, certainly without seeing each other, there would be little time for planned occasions, and there’s always the not miniscule likelihood of discovering the other has been kidnapped or killed.” He glanced up. “On the other hand, it would appear we both actually understand this like others in the past may not have,” he added and Lestrade nodded.

“Yeah, sounds about right,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “Look, Mycroft. I’m nearly fifty, I’m divorced because I was more faithful to my work than my wife was to me, and I’m not exactly able or interested in getting back into the dating game. If you want my honest thoughts, I think we should give it a go,” he said, shrugging. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s highly unlikely either of us are likely to find anybody with our lines of business. May as well give it a go and see what happens. If nothing else, the occasional sex could work out nicely for us both,” he said, glancing over at Mycroft .

Mycroft seemed to think on it for a while before letting out a sigh. “Agreed. I can’t guarantee much of a romantic relationship but if nothing else, a casual comfort between compatible participants seems doable.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Sounds like a good deal to me,” he confirmed and Mycroft shared a smile with him.

“Coincidentally, I’m free for the evening,” he said, nodding to Greg. “Dinner?” he asked.

Lestrade nodded with a small, light smile. “Sounds nice, actually. I should be alright for a few hours anyhow.”

“Excellent.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Mycroft.” Lestrade kissed his shoulder. “Mycroft, I’ve got to go,” he whispered and Mycroft made a soft hum as he rolled over and looked up, only to see Greg fully dressed standing next to the bed.

“Another murder?” Mycroft asked tiredly and Lestrade nodded. “Very well,” he said, then offered him a sleepy smile before tilting his head up to kiss him. “What time is it?”

Greg chuckled. “Half four. Early start of the day for me. I probably won’t have much time to call before too late tonight,” he said and Mycroft nodded in understanding.

“Catch some killers then, Gregory” he said, squeezing Greg’s hand in his.

Greg chuckled and patted his hip. “Go back to sleep, Myc,” he whispered, kissing his head.

“I do hate it when you call me that,” Mycroft grumbled as he rolled over, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Do not,” Lestrade said as he walked around the bed. “You like it, you protest too much to my using it to be truly bothered,” he said, stopping at the door to look at his sleeping lover. Nearly every time they spent the night together, he or Mycroft one ended up having to leave extremely early, if not before they were even truly asleep at night. 

Mycroft chuckled from the bed. “Go on, Gregory. I’ll talk to you in a few days, as always,” he said fondly.

Lestrade smiled and nodded. “I know, love. Just getting an image to stick with me through the long day ahead,” he said fondly before opening the door and heading out without another word.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
When Lestrade got to the scene, he was regretting stopping for coffee when he found Sherlock already there and berating Anderson. Even John looked fed up with Sherlock already. Lestrade could only guess that them being their already before he called meant they were the ones who found the body. John probably hadn’t been to sleep yet. He cringed as he walked over, flashing his badge for protocol before ducking under the crime scene tape.

“What’s going on?” he asked, holding out his hands as he walked up to Sherlock and Anderson, only to look past and see the body of a naked man lying face down. He shook his head at how young the man appeared. Barely older than a teenager. “Blimey.”

“Lestrade, tell this buffoon of yours to stop contaminating my corpse!” Sherlock whined- for it could only be called a whine- as he turned to him, only to stop. He tilted his head curiously. “You weren’t at your flat, why weren’t you at your flat?” he asked curiously and John shot him a slightly panicked look before turning his eyes to Greg, shaking his head subtly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Body, Sherlock,” he prompted and Sherlock turned back.

“John and I were after a barber who was stealing from his clients while they were getting their hair cut and he ran down here. When we spotted a foot sticking out of the garbage, John made me stop so he could see about the person in with the bins. I personally wanted to keep going- the barber was living and criminal, certainly I’m no good to a dead junkie-“

John cut him off. “The point being, I made him call it in when I discovered the poor bloke was dead,” he supplied.

Anderson grunted. “If anybody is contaminating the scene, it was Sherlock’s pet soldier here!” he argued and Sherlock shot him a dark look through his narrowed eyes.

John however, just looked amused. “He wasn’t cold yet, how was I supposed to know he was dead? I am a doctor you prat, I had to check if he was still living. God, sometimes I wonder why I bother shutting Sherlock up, you really are stupid-“ He stopped and slapped a hand over his mouth. “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he said, cringing, though Lestrade couldn’t fight a snicker at the proud look Sherlock was giving him. “Sorry, sleep deprived, carry on,” he said, waving a hand as he ducked his head.

Lestrade just sighed. “Sherlock, if all you did was find the body, you can either help us out or give your statement officially then go home. John needs sleep,” he said, knowing it would appeal to Sherlock better than saying he needed sleep himself.

Sherlock shrugged, glancing back at the body. “Overdose. Whoever was with him probably took his clothes so they wouldn’t get caught. Maybe they belonged to someone else. However, it was entirely of his own doing. Not suicide, likely accidental. It’s quite easy to overdose if you’re unused to a new drug,” he said, only to flinch slightly when he looked back at Lestrade.

Lestrade knew quite well, as Sherlock had overdosed on his watch the last time he relapsed before finally getting clean. “Alright. We’ve got it from here. You get home and sleep some, John,” he said with a warm smile.

“Thanks mate,” he said, nodding at Sherlock. “Can we _please_ go home now?” he asked and Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, we may as well. Trail’s cold from here. And you are dead on your feet,” he said, though his tone was a mixture of disdain at ‘normal’ humans and a slight warmth that Lestrade had noticed Sherlock acquire after John showed up. It wasn’t until Sherlock was passing Lestrade that he suddenly stopped. Greg froze when Sherlock turned back, eyeing him curiously. “That cologne, what is it? It isn’t yours but it’s familiar. I just can’t place it,” he said and Lestrade could see the cogs whirring in his head. “You didn’t come from your flat and you smell like cologne that isn’t your own… but whose?” he asked, looking absolutely stumped. “Someone at the Yard, I suppose,” he said almost to himself. “I hate when I can’t remember something,” he muttered and John laughed, clasping Sherlock’s wrist in his hand.

“The great Sherlock Holmes admitting he doesn’t know something. That’s a rare treat,” he said, tugging him away. “We’ll see you later, Lestrade,” he called back as he all but dragged Sherlock away from the scene.

Lestrade had never been more thankful for John Watson in his life.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade was very surprised when a second naked body, this time a young woman, showed up much like the one Sherlock and John discovered had. Same apparently accidental overdose as before. There was nothing to go on, and no sign of foul play, so they had to label it another accidental overdose.

However, when the third body showed up, Lestrade had no choice but to call in Sherlock.

“She’s the same as the last two, another accidental overdose, no sign of foul play, but as often as we have overdoses, we don’t usually have three in one week and all of them found naked and dumped in the garbage,” he said, leading Sherlock down the alley to the skip they found her in. “We found three needles in with her but we haven’t found any DNA besides her own and-“

Sherlock frowned. “Why would she have three syringes with her all used at once?” he asked.

John frowned. “Sorry, how is that important?” he asked Lestrade, who was walking in step with him.

Lestrade cringed. “A user only needs one syringe per use. Hell, you know how many share needles, it’s shocking enough she had a needle with only her DNA on it. But to have three that were apparently used at once suggests she didn’t do it herself, you get me?” he asked. 

“That’s how she’s different from the other two!” Sherlock said, coming up to the skip. He looked around it, eyes narrowed like a hawk. “You see, John, the others were found without their needles. They didn’t even have track marks to suggest they were habitual users so they either were new to it or-“

“Yeah, they didn’t do it themselves, we know, Sherlock,” Lestrade finished. “But we’re stumped on why they’re ending up naked in the garbage.”

“Eighty percent of IV drug users use with a partner,” John supplied offhandedly. “Usually the partner runs off to keep from getting caught if they overdose, but still, it’s possible.”

Sherlock leapt into the skip, which had been cleared of garbage and examined the body. “Yes John, very good, come examine the body for me!” he called out, voice echoing from inside the empty skip.

Lestrade sighed and gave John a sympathetic look and handed him some gloves. John put on his gloves and grabbed the edge of the skip and jumped, tumbling over the side, a little clumsy with his shorter stature. Lestrade leaned against the edge, looking in as John and Sherlock knelt by the body. “Alright female, early twenties I’d say,” John started as he gave the body a perfunctory once over. “Naked obviously. I’d say time of death is about five hours ago,” he said. “Probably died about the same time of night as the poor man we stumbled across. He had been dead less than an hour when we found him.” He looked at her face. “No visible wounds, incidental or defensive,” he said, then looked at her arms. “Injection site isn’t the forearm,” he noted, looking at both arms. “Crook of left elbow it would appear. Not unusual,” he noted. “No vomit around her mouth or in the skip, so she didn’t pass out and choke-“

“That isn’t how intravenous drug overdoses usually go anyhow,” Sherlock offered and John hummed.

“True, true. Been a long time since I worked in A&E. I forget which goes with what. That’s pills usually, not shooting up.” He looked her over. “No obvious signs of cause of death. What was in the syringes?” he asked Lestrade, who shook his head.

“They haven’t gotten back to me, but the last two were different drugs. First one was cocaine and the second was heroin,” he explained.

Sherlock looked up. “So other than the nudity and being found in an alley thrown out with the garbage, there wasn’t a link?” he asked.

“Not that we’ve seen. Nothing common between them. Two white, one black. None worked together, lived in different neighborhoods. No shared characteristics we’re aware of. That’s why I called you in,” he said, looking up at him. “Any ideas?”

Sherlock hummed. “Six so far. Maybe five, but I’m still vacillating on one.” He stood, gesturing for John to follow. “We’re finished here,” he said, hopping over the side of the skip. He absently held out his hand to help John down without taking his eyes off of Lestrade. “I’ll need the files by tonight,” he said, glancing at the body. “Nothing else for the scene to tell you so no worries about Anderson stomping all over evidence now,” he said with a little quirk to his lips. “Come along, John,” he said, turning with a dramatic sweep of his coat before he stalked off.

John rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Greg-“

“John wait,” Lestrade said, grabbing his shoulder. He looked down at John, then glanced up at Sherlock’s retreating figure. “Watch him, alright?” he asked, and John gave him a suspicious look. Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You know why, you aren’t stupid, no matter what Sherlock might think.”

John gave him a grim look and nodded. “I’ve got my eye on him, don’t worry.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade was just setting his tea down when Sherlock burst into the flat. John looked up from his own tea and smiled. “About time you returned-“

“Not my fault, that insufferable idiot followed me!” Sherlock argued, storming past Lestrade and John to go to his violin. “I AM NOT HERE RIGHT NOW!” he shouted at the flat door before beginning to play his violin, back to the room.

“Honestly, you are a bigger nuisance than I remember you being as a child!” Lestrade nearly dropped the tea he had just recovered when Mycroft came sweeping in, a flush of anger actually gracing his cheeks. “SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” he shouted over the racket of Sherlock’s violin playing.

John sighed. “Oh here we go,” he said, then settled back, offering Lestrade a forced smile. “They can go at it for a while, if you haven’t discovered yet,” he said, only to be drowned out as Sherlock made a viciously heinous screech with his violin.

“SHERLOCK I AM A BUSY MAN, YOU WILL PAY ATTENTION TO ME!” Mycroft shouted angrily. Lestrade was amused, he had never seen Mycroft show his anger openly. He hadn’t even been aware Mycroft’s voice went that loud. He was quiet even in the throes of passion. “I am asking for your OWN GOOD, Sherlock! Just listen to me and THINK!”

Sherlock clearly wasn’t going to answer so Lestrade sighed. “Mycroft, just give up while you still have your voice-“

“I can shout at my brother all I want, Gregory!” Mycroft hissed, only to freeze when Sherlock’s bow fell away from his violin with a rasping hiss.

“Wait, _Gregory_?!” Sherlock asked, spinning around. He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. He stepped a bit closer, only to have his eyes fly wide when he inhaled. “Oh!” he gasped, only to suddenly pale and adopt a somewhat horrified expression. “Oh _no_!” 

John chuckled. “Took months longer than I figured-“

“MONTHS?!” Sherlock crowed, eyes wide. “Oh _no_ dear Lord, I think I’ve gone blind,” he said suddenly, slapping a hand over his eyes as he went out of his way to climb over the couch rather than walk past Lestrade or Mycroft. “John! John I need your gun-“

John sighed a longsuffering sigh and let his head fall back. “Sherlock, you are not going to shoot your brother-“

“I mean to shoot myself!” he cried, stumbling over a stack of books as he refused to uncover his eyes.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, you are being rather more immature than usual about this-“

“YOU AND LESTRADE BOTH SMELL LIKE YOUR COLOGNE, I RATHER THINK I’M BEHAVING AS EXPECTED!” Sherlock cried out from his spot on the floor, eyes still covered as he felt around under the desk.

John just chuckled. “Could be worse, you should’ve seen him the night Mrs. Hudson came to dinner with us and flirted with the restaurant owner. Apparently she’s a motherly figure in his life therefore flirting is unacceptable. If it was anybody but you, Mycroft, he’d be making snide remarks, not wishing death upon himself,” he said, all without looking up from his tea.

Lestrade just chuckled. “To be fair, mate, you should really be more ashamed that John worked it out within a few hours and he’s just another average bloke like the rest of us.”

Sherlock stood up suddenly, eyes uncovered as he looked scandalized. “John you worked it out on your OWN and I wasn’t able to?!” he asked, then pouted. “And you didn’t tell me?”

John sighed. “Sherlock, look at this reaction and wonder why I would’ve wanted you kept in the dark?” he asked. Sherlock stormed over and sat down beside John, narrowing his eyes at him. John raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“I’m trying to work out why on earth your dull little brain was able to process something my superior intellect couldn’t,” he answered, looking John’s face over.

Lestrade smirked. “Cause Mycroft came straight from kidnapping him to my office and after we had a nice shag, I accidentally put his shirt on to wear to a crime scene, that’s why,” he said and Mycroft made a sound.

“ _Gregory_ -“

“Oh dear God, I didn’t need to know that,” Sherlock moaned, letting his head fall onto John’s lap. 

“What, that your brother’s a damn good shag-“

“Gregory!” Mycroft exclaimed, cheeks flushed. “Decorum please!” 

Lestrade just winked at him. “Well you are, love. Also, what’s all that nonsense about how fat your brother is, Sherlock? I can promise you he looks damn good naked-“

“Mycroft, when my brain melts out from this information, be sure to tell Mummy this was all your fault,” Sherlock moaned, pulling the pillow from John’s chair over his head, which was still on John’s lap.

John smirked. “As much as I didn’t need to know about Mycroft’s sex life, I can’t say I’m not enjoying this,” he said, snickering somewhat childishly at Sherlock’s pain.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
When Lestrade made his way into Mycroft’s office, having been brought to Mycroft’s house by a car after work, he saw he was on the phone. He walked over and sat down across from him, crossing his legs as he looked at Mycroft, admiring his calm exterior even though it sounded as if he was negotiating something serious.

When he finally hung up, Lestrade gave him a moment to relax (which he took to rub his eyes tiredly), before he stood up. “You need something to eat and some rest,” he said as he rounded the desk. He kneaded the back of Mycroft’s neck soothingly as he leaned down and kissed his head. “Come on, have you got time to come at least have some tea?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “That would be lovely, thank you, Gregory,” he said tiredly. He stood up and let Lestrade take his hand and lead the way downstairs to the kitchen. “I haven’t slept in two days. I’m dead on my feet,” he admitted, shooting Lestrade a tired smile.

“Not to sound unhappy to get to see you, love, but why did you ask me to come if you are so tired? Surely sleep is more important than seeing me,” he said and Mycroft cringed.

“I wanted to talk about something,” he said. He sat down at the small table in the corner for quick meals without bothering with the dining room. He looked up and watched Greg going around making tea, smiling when he brought him a cup. “Thank you.”

“Alright, so what did you want to talk about that’s so important?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft gave him a small smile. “My dear, as you probably gleaned from that rather embarrassing incident yesterday afternoon, I really do have concerns about Sherlock being on this drugs case,” he said and Lestrade nodded.

“I figured,” he said, then sighed. “Look, Myc, I can’t make him stop. I know I could’ve always not called him in, but I needed the help.”

Mycroft frowned. “I think you can understand why I don’t want him on this case,” he started and Lestrade nodded.

“Yeah, more than anybody. I do worry but I trust him, Mycroft. And if nothing else, I trust John to keep an eye on him for me.” He reached out and curled his hand around Mycroft’s. 

Mycroft scoffed. “You really put a lot of trust into John Watson-“

“Mycroft,” he said firmly. “He shot a man for Sherlock within barely a day of knowing him. Clearly he is unnaturally loyal to Sherlock for some reason. I trust him with Sherlock’s wellbeing almost more than I do you, even with all your resources,” he said pointedly. “John has risked his life and taken a life for Sherlock Holmes. He has a soldiers bravery, a doctor’s cool head, and somehow has the ability to put up with Sherlock’s bullheaded childishness. Clearly, you have to see why I trust him to keep Sherlock out of trouble.”

Mycroft’s lip curled with distaste. “He only knows vaguely of Sherlock’s history with drugs. He had no idea how to keep him out of trouble-“

“He doesn’t have to know the whole story. He knows enough to use his judgment,” Lestrade said simply. “I trust him, Mycroft.”

Mycroft just tilted his head, taking another sip of his tea. “I hope you’re right to do so, Gregory.” 

Greg watched as he finished his tea and rested his head in his hand, elbow propped on the table. “Come on, Mycroft, let’s get you to bed,” he said softly. He put their cups in the sink and then pulled Mycroft up, smiling at the sleepy look on his face. 

Mycroft leaned against Lestrade weakly. “I do admit, I’m very tired.” Lestrade led a sleepy Mycroft upstairs, smiling at how maneuverable Mycroft was in his tired state. He handed him clothes and Mycroft changed for bed without a word, eyes bleary and unfocused as he moved slowly. “Right, to bed with you, Mr. Holmes,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Mycroft gave him a warm smile as he climbed into his bed. “You always have a way of convincing me to take better care of myself, my dear,” he said and Lestrade smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Well somebody has to do it and the pretty girls you pay sure aren’t doing it,” he said, leaning down to kiss Mycroft softly. “I’ll try to call you tomorrow, alright?” he asked and Mycroft nodded, smiling tiredly.

“Of course, Gregory,” he said, yawning. “Have Edith get a car for you. I don’t want you walking this late at night, it isn’t safe.”

Lestrade snickered. “Love you too, Mycroft,” he said, patting his hip before he stood up. “Goodnight,” he whispered on his way out, smiling to himself on his way downstairs.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
When they found their fourth body, things were starting to look desperate. Even Sherlock was frustrated because he couldn’t get any more information from the crime scene than Lestrade’s team could.

“This makes no sense!” he argued, frowning as he paced around the body. “It is absolutely clean. I mean, the body is filthy,” he allowed. “But the drugs are nothing special and without the clothes, there’s no way to tell _where_ the person died- OH!” he stopped suddenly, eyes going wide. “OH! John, come along!” he cried, tugging John around by his coat. “I have to talk to some dealers!” he shouted over his shoulder to Lestrade, who just flinched at the idea of Sherlock talking to drug dealers. 

When he got a call from John four hours later demanding he come to the flat and talk sense into Sherlock, he knew something was wrong. He had just arrived at the door when his phone dinged. He pounded on the door and then pulled out his phone.

_I’m in the middle of a meeting is entirely inescapable and I fear Sherlock will have done something stupid by the time I get out. Stop him. –MH_

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Hello, Mr. Lestrade!” she said brightly. There was a loud thud from above them and she tutted. “John and Sherlock seem to be having a bit of a domestic. Oh those two,” she said, shaking her head as she led Lestrade inside.

He sighed. “I’ll just go sort them out,” he said, then turned and ran up the stairs two at a time. When he got up to the open door to 221B, he rushed in just in time to duck a flying boot. “OI!” he shouted, walking into the room further only to see John following Sherlock around.

“Lestrade! Oh thank GOD!” He threw his hands up. “You talk sense into him!” He wheeled on Sherlock, who was bent over into a trunk. “Because he’s TOO BLOODY STUPID-“

“John, shouting is unnecessary,” Sherlock announced as he stood up straight again, pulling on the white hooded sweater he had dug out of the trunk. He left it unzipped so that it revealed his shockingly tight, pale pink tee-shirt and- though Greg barely believed his eyes- the bare strip of skin between the bottom of his too tight, too short tee-shirt and tight jeans.

Lestrade’s first words were a rather mindless utterance of “I didn’t even know you owned blue jeans.”

Sherlock shot him a look. “Why are you even here?” he asked and John scoffed.

“Because I called him! Maybe if you won’t listen to me, you’ll listen to what HE has to say about your _idiotic_ idea-“

“My idea is perfect, John!” Sherlock said excitedly. 

Lestrade held up his hands. “The fact I was just texted a frantic ‘stop my brother from doing anything stupid’ from Mycroft, I think maybe you should run your plan past me first then we’ll decide if it’s stupid or not,” he suggested and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You are all so _dull_ -“

John scoffed. “Fine, I’ll tell him!” He turned to Lestrade, eyes full of anger and a hint of fear. “Captain Idiot over here has discovered that there is a new drug dealer dealing to club-going Uni kids at various clubs on various different nights and he plans to go under cover as a university student looking for a new drug dealer, find this new dealer, and then _go off alone with him to wherever he’s been taking the murdered kids_ in hopes he can work out why he’s purposefully overdosing kids,” he finished and Lestrade shot Sherlock a disbelieving look.

Sherlock gave him an offended look. “What?”

Lestrade just shook his head. “ _What_?! What, you ask? What part of _you_ going under cover as a tweaker could go wrong, you ask?” he crossed his arms. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lestrade, don’t be stupid, I’ve been clean for six years-“

Lestrade let out a bark of humorless laugher. “Yeah, after two years with _Four relapses_ ,” Lestrade stressed and John cringed.

“Four, Sherlock? Really?” he asked, looking up at him.

Sherlock just flushed with anger. “That is not important information-“

Lestrade stalked closer, anger rising in him. “I took you in off the streets, Sherlock. I let you live with me while you detoxed- in front of my _children_ \- and took you back _all four times you relapsed_ ,” he hissed. “You’ve been clean for six years, Sherlock. Do you really think purposefully shoving yourself into a drug den is a good idea? Do you honestly?”

Sherlock glared. “I am not _weak_ -“

“Oh, just like you weren’t the first time you relapsed? What about the third? The fourth time was _clearly_ not weakness. No, you just overdosed because you were _strong_ -“

John paled. “Jesus, he overdosed?” he asked and Lestrade sighed but nodded. “We’ve been investigating overdosed Uni kids and you-“

Sherlock sniffed, turning his head. “A lot of people die of overdoses, having done it myself doesn’t make it any more personal than stabbers and pickpockets,” he said sternly.

Greg sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “Sherlock, if you are put in a situation where they expect you to use, you know it’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll do it again. If not from weakness for the junkie you are, you’ll do it to hold your cover.” He lifted his head. “ _Please_ ,” he begged. “Don’t do this again,” he said softly.

Sherlock just turned a cold expression on them both. “I am _not_ a junkie!” He stormed over to Lestrade. “I am straight, I haven’t touched a syringe in five years since I threw out my last secret stash after a year clean-“ He shoved the sleeves of the jacket up and held out his forearms to Lestrade. “I got clean for _you_ and your stupid rules, I plan to stay clean because if I don’t stay clean I can’t _work_!”

Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock, I know-“

“DO NOT CALL ME A JUNKIE!” he shouted, whipping around to go back to digging around in his trunk.

John just stared between them, eyebrows nearly to his hairline in shock. Lestrade just hummed and cringed. “Take John with you at least-“

“Oh don’t be stupid, John looks too old-“

“Thanks for that,” John butted in and Sherlock stood up to roll his eyes.

“Not what I meant and you know it. I just mean that I’m still young enough to pass for younger than I am and you have the stress-lines around your eyes and mouth of a man who has lived a stressful life whereas I barely have any wrinkles at all. Plus my lack of sun exposure makes me look even younger,” he said, coming back with a pair of new-looking trainers.

Lestrade knew when to accept defeat. Especially when it involved Sherlock Holmes. “Alright, do it your way, but Sherlock I swear to God, I will lock you up if you go back to your old ways in this mess,” he threatened evenly. Sherlock looked up, surprised. 

“Why do you _care_ -“

“I watched your _heart stop beating_ ,” Lestrade said in a broken voice. John developed a pinched expression as he saw the painful memories flicker across Greg’s face. Sherlock just froze, eyes wide as genuine shock settled over his visage. “Sherlock, I bloody well do care because believe it or not people do care about you- God help us all- and I sat there beside you when I found you on the floor of your flat, needle still in your fucking arm, and waited for an ambulance to come. I watched your heart stop. I watched you physically die for two minutes and twenty-three seconds before the paramedics revived you. I _will not_ do that again, Sherlock.” He shook his head. “I just won’t.” He took a breath and turned his head away. “You don’t _deserve_ it, but a good few people in this world care about you, Sherlock Holmes, and I understand that letting you work for me puts you in danger constantly. I’m alright with that because you’re smarter than most of the criminals you tangle with.” He shook his head. “But drugs are your weakness. You are an addict and recovered or not, you are always at risk. So far, it’s all been dead druggies and the like, but going undercover as a junkie is too far, alright? This is the ONE situation where I don’t know if I can trust you,” he said softly.

John sighed. “Lestrade-“

Lestrade shook his head. “Look after him. If he won’t drag you along, at least make sure you keep in contact with him on his mobile. He listens to you for some reason, occasionally at least.” He looked at Sherlock. “And you, if you have any problems, no matter what, you text John and let him _get you out_. Hell, if you want to call in the police, go right ahead. But don’t get sucked into using again, Sherlock. Just don’t.” He turned and walked out, hoping to God that Sherlock listened for once in his life.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade heard nothing for two days. His team was no closer to finding the killer, either. It was terribly frustrating. Everything they did, everything they tried to do, it didn’t work. He even used Sherlock’s information of targeting university students at clubs and a new dealer in the area, but nobody was talking to him or his people.

When John’s number showed up on his phone just as his door opened and Sally Donovan came in looking surprised, he knew something had gone wrong. “Sir! We’ve got another victim-“

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he cursed, answering his phone. “John?!”

“Greg…” He trailed off, his voice weak.

Lestrade’s heart sank and his stomach twisted. “Jesus no,” he whispered and John let out a weak cough.

“He’s… he’s alive. I figure he’ll probably be alright. He was more resistant to the drugs than the others so he was conscious long enough to text me a street name. I called 999 on my way there and found him naked in a skip, just like the others. He was unconscious but still breathing. There were no syringes, but there’s two track marks on his arm. It’s the wrong arm, though. He didn’t do it himself, so I guess the killer did.”

“Sir?” Donovan asked, looking at him curiously.

Lestrade stood up. “Right, I’m coming there now. If he is alright, he has to give a statement and I want it to be to me. Also, if he survives this, I’m going to kill him,” he hissed and John chuckled weakly.

“I’m sure Mycroft knew as soon as they loaded him in the ambulance, there were CCTVs on the street further up. Might want to get here before he does, he might kill Sherlock before you get your statement,” he said and Lestrade groaned.

“Jesus, I promised him Sherlock wouldn’t get hurt. He’s going to have at me for that one,” he said, shrugging on his coat. “Alright, see you there, mate,” he said as he hung up.

“What was all that about? The Freak get there before we did?” Donovan asked and Lestrade cringed.

“Sherlock Holmes is our victim,” he said simply, ignoring the shocked look as he led the way down the hall.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade arrived just in time to see John arguing with a doctor, one who looked extremely agitated and somewhat afraid. “Whoa, what’s going on here?” he asked, stepping in. He held out his badge to the doctor. “DI Lestrade.”

The young doctor made an unhappy face. “Dr. Jones,” he said, then glanced at John. “Mr. Watson-“

“That’s Dr. Watson, to you,” John said in a clipped, angry tone. “I’ve sure as hell be one a lot longer than your amateur arse,” he said and Lestrade shot him a look. 

Dr. Jones glared. “As I was saying, _Dr._ Watson is insisting on interfering with our treatment of Mr. Holmes- the patient he came in with-“

“Oh sod this,” John said, waving a hand to shut the younger man up. “Greg, please explain to them that I am Sherlock’s personal doctor. I know his medical history and therefore they should _listen to what I’m telling them_.”

“You already said you don’t know what he was on-“

John growled and threw his hands up. “He was unconscious! Cocaine overdose alone wouldn’t lead to unconsciousness in someone with his tolerance as an addict, even one who’s been clean six years. You need to administer an opioid antagonist because there is a high likelihood he was given heroin or morphine as well or possibly instead of cocaine! The longer you continue to try and treat him for cocaine overdose, the greater chance he’s going to _die_ of respiratory failure you bloody moron!” he shouted. “Where the hell did you get your medical degree?!”

Lestrade just shot the doctor a look. “Is that true? You aren’t treating him for opiate overdose at all?”

“We- we’re waiting for the test results to be positive-“

Lestrade shook his head. “That man didn’t take those drugs himself, he was attacked. There have been four deaths already, don’t let there be a fifth,” he said and the doctor gave him a slightly fearful look before turning and leaving. 

John turned back. “I take it cocaine was Sherlock’s only drug of choice, then?” he asked, looking worried. “Just to be sure this was an attack and not relapse?”

Lestrade sighed. “I’m not saying he never used anything else, but cocaine was his chosen high. He liked stimulants, not depressants.”

Donovan interrupted. “So wait, all that stuff about the Freak being an ex-junkie, that’s true?” she asked and John turned his glare on her.

“Swear to God, I’ve never hit a woman in my life but you’re really asking for it,” he said in a dark voice that made her actually step back a bit.

Lestrade’s mobile dinged and he cringed, already knowing who it would be from.

_Where is my brother?- MH_

“Mycroft?” John asked and Lestrade nodded as he replied. John sighed. “He told Sherlock not to do this-“

“Yeah well we all did, didn’t we?” Lestrade said sadly, shaking his head. 

“Mycroft, who’s Mycroft?” Donovan asked curiously.

John opened his mouth but didn’t have to answer as the doors Sally and Greg had come through opened with a slight violence and Mycroft himself came walking in. “Gregory, _I told you_!” he said in a much angrier voice than he usually used on anybody other than Sherlock. His eyes were wide with what they all could see was fear. “I told you I didn’t want Sherlock on this case-“

Lestrade sighed wearily. “Mycroft, I know-“

“Why didn’t you stop him?!” Mycroft demanded. “And why didn’t you tell me he went ahead with his idiotic plan?!”

“Myc, I _tried_ to stop him,” Lestrade argued. “And I didn’t tell you because you’re the one who is meant to have him on surveillance and I was busy. I can’t help we haven’t spoken in a few days and it didn’t come up-“

Mycroft just glared. “I knew this would happen. I _knew_ your incompetence in doing your bloody job would be his undoing-“

Lestrade scoffed. “Oh I’M incompetent?! You’re the one who has your brother within your sight at all times and I am the one who let him get in this mess?! He may be your brother, Mycroft, but he isn’t my responsibility! I do my best to look out for him but I have a job to do and I have a _life_ that doesn’t revolve around you bloody Holmeses-“

Donovan gaped. “Oh my God there’s _two_ of them?!” she asked, looking at Mycroft warily.

“SHUT UP, SALLY!” Lestrade snapped, glaring at her before turning back to Mycroft. “Look, I did my best, I fucking _begged_ him not to go but he’s just as stubborn as you are!”

Mycroft’s nostrils flared. “Oh you did your best, did you? Lestrade, you know better than anybody that he doesn’t give a damn about me! He does his best to slip my surveillance out of pure spite! I’ve trusted you to look after him since Dr. Watson showed up and _you_ are the one who let him get himself in this mess, Detective Inspector-“

Lestrade rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Oh that’s nice, we’re back to last names and job titles are we, love? That’s nice, blame me on your brother’s arrogance-“

“Well it isn’t my fault he’s convinced he’s invincible,” Mycroft said stiffly. “I’m not the one that makes everything go away for him when he gets himself in a fuss-“

“You bloody well know you tell me every time he gets in trouble just so I can fix it up!” Lestrade argued. “Stop blaming me just because your brother cares more about me than he does you, Mycroft! Maybe if I wasn’t the one who helped him fix himself and you weren’t the one who _abandoned him_ he wouldn’t feel that way!” he sneered, only to gasp and pale, eyes full of regret the second the words were out of his mouth. 

Mycroft gave him as much of a hurt look as he could allow before slipping a cold mask on his face. “Well then,” he said softly, before turning to face John. “Do keep me informed as to my brother’s wellbeing, Dr. Watson,” he said before turning to walk away.

Lestrade cursed. “Myc, wait!” he said, catching his arm as he started past. He gently curled his fingers around his wrist. “I’m sorry, love-“

“I would have to ask you to refrain from calling me that, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said coldly, facing ahead resolutely. “Remove your hand.”

Lestrade frowned. “What? Look, Mycroft, I’m sorry for what I said-“

“So I hear,” he said stiffly. “However, if that is how you truly feel then I see no reason for our acquaintance to continue-“

“Mycroft!” Lestrade said, pulling his hand away in shock. “You can’t be serious, one little-“

“Good evening, Lestrade,” he said curtly, sweeping back through the doors from which he came with his head held high and his shoulders stiff. Lestrade stared after him in shock.

“What the hell just happened?” Donovan asked the room at large and John sighed and turned to glare at her.

“Piss off, Sally,” he said heavily, watching Greg stare into space with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sherlock got out of the hospital fairly quickly and John took the task of watching Sherlock through later symptoms of withdrawal himself. Lestrade tried to talk to Mycroft several times but after two weeks, he had to admit defeat. Sherlock found their killer once he was well enough to explain to Lestrade- a woman whose daughter had been pressured into using drugs in university and died as a result who had an irrational vendetta against young drug users- and that had been that. Lestrade had left Sherlock in John’s hands for several weeks during which John _refused_ to let him go on a case until he was well again.

Life went on but every day Lestrade missed Mycroft. He would hear him mentioned in something John said at the pub and it hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. They never were much of a couple in a real _relationship_ , but he had really enjoyed knowing he had Mycroft to look forward to. It made him sad that he would still think “Mycroft will laugh at this later” only to remember Mycroft was no longer speaking to him.

Everybody could tell something had him down, but nobody seemed to know what. John and some of his mates would take him out to the pub and try and keep his mind off work and his failed relationship, but in the end, it was only temporarily effective. 

It was only a few months later- when he had finally almost gotten over Mycroft- that he got a call while he was on holiday with his kids. He didn’t recognize the number but he knew it could be work related so he answered. “Lestrade.”

There was a silence before the voice on the other end spoke. “Hello, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade froze, his heart skipping a beat. “Mycroft,” he said with a sigh. 

“Yes, I am sorry for interrupting your holiday, but a rather urgent and… _delicate_ matter has come up with which I could use your help,” he said simply.

“Mycroft, I’m packing to head home from Spain, I really can’t help you right now-“

“I know you are, and I am sorry to ask, but I need someone I can trust,” Mycroft said and Greg felt his resolve slipping.

“Mycroft, we haven’t spoken in nearly four months. What possibly could you trust me with that you wouldn’t rather have a professional deal with?” he asked as he went back to shoving clothes into his bag.

“My brother has gotten himself mixed up in something way over his head. I have no idea why he’s even there, but there is a military testing facility in Dartmoor that is ridiculously above even Sherlock’s imagination. He’s messing about in things that could get him in a lot of trouble and I need someone to look out for him.”

Greg snorted. “What about John? Last I heard-“

“John is on the case with him. In fact, he seems to be enjoying himself. Sherlock has posed as me and John as his military escort on an inspection of Baskerville military testing facility. I do believe he’s having fun pulling rank as an Army Captain once again,” he said in an exaggeratedly annoyed voice.

Lestrade chuckled, picturing Mycroft rolling his eyes. “Well what do you expect me to do, Mycroft? Also, how did he pose as you?”

“Stole my ID. He always does. I’m sure he has access to everything within British control by now,” he said and Lestrade snorted.

“That explains a lot actually.” He sighed. “Mycroft, I can’t just go running off. Even if I am on my way home tomorrow, what the hell do you expect me to do? He’s Sherlock Holmes-“

“Lestrade, you can imagine the trouble they could get into. And all the way in Dartmoor. I can’t possibly get away. I’m terribly busy,” he said pointedly.

Lestrade groaned. “Mycroft-“

“Gregory, please,” Mycroft all but whispered. 

Lestrade’s heart clinched. He had always loved hearing Mycroft call him that. Nobody else ever called him Gregory, not even his mother. Mycroft alone used that name, Mycroft said it with such affection, and Mycroft had always looked at him with such a warm expression when he said it. It hurt in the best way possible to hear it again for the first time in months. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Alright, Myc,” he agreed finally. “But I swear to God, if I get shot or something, I’m going to haunt you,” he swore and Mycroft chuckled weakly.

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Lestrade snorted, shaking his head as he stalked out of the pub. “He didn’t remember my name is ‘Greg’?! Seriously?” he asked John, who was walking just behind him. “I swear to God, why do I care so much about anybody with the name of bloody Holmes?” he asked, sighing as he sat down at the table with a huff.

John smiled sadly. “Mycroft did send you then?” he asked and Lestrade shot him a look. John shrugged, looking out down the road. “Well, I didn’t know you two were speaking anymore.”

“We weren’t,” Lestrade said with a huff. “I was getting ready to come home from taking the girls to Spain and Mycroft called me for the first time in four months and what do I do?! I do what he asks of me. Why am I such a tit?” he asked, looking down at his lap. “Four months without a word and yet when he asks me to go all the way to bloody Dartmoor to save yours and Sherlock’s hides I just go-“

“Why wouldn’t you?” Sherlock asked as he stalked up, coat billowing behind him. “You always do what Mycroft says, when have you not?” he asked, sitting down beside John, both of them across from him. “He’s a nosy git.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t spoken to him in four months, I clearly don’t always do what Mycroft says.”

Sherlock looked genuinely confused. “Wait, _really_?” he asked, looking at John for confirmation.

John just shook his head, looking exhausted. “Sherlock, they broke up four months ago. You honestly didn’t know that?” he asked and Sherlock tilted his head.

“Well that would explain why Mycroft’s been more insufferable than usual-“

“You mean to say you didn’t even know your brother and I split up?!” Greg asked, then threw a hand up. “I swear to God, I wonder about my sanity. I don’t know why I give a damn about either of you two lunatics. You’ve done nothing but disappoint me or call me an idiot and your bloody brother is as much of a nutter as you are and I fell in love with the bastard!” He laughed humorlessly. “Maybe I’m the one who’s barking out of the lot of us then,” he said, standing up swiftly. “I’ll go talk to the local police. Whatever,” he said, stalking off, shoulders slumped.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Every time he closed his eyes- even if only to blink- all he saw was the explosion. He felt the heat and the pulse of the blast wave. He heard the sound that he could only associate with death. He had to wonder how much worse the blinking was for John.

“You keep flinching. Why are you flinching?” Sherlock’s voice asked. Lestrade looked up and saw him idly walking nearer. He tugged his coat tighter and sat beside him on the bench outside of the police station. The morning was dawning in the distance, a gray sky with a thin line of pink along the horizon. Sherlock reached in Lestrade’s coat pocket without preamble and pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes. He took one, then offered Lestrade the last fag. “Don’t tell John,” he said absently as he watched Lestrade light it, holding his hand out expectantly.

“If he finds out, I had no idea you picked my pockets,” Lestrade said, handing him the lighter. He took a drag and felt a soothing wave of calm wash over him. “You really shouldn’t start smoking again. You were quit for a whole year before lately.”

Sherlock snorted, blowing a smoke ring with a light air of interest about him. “You had been off them for a year and a half until recently. You’re one to talk.” He looked over at him curiously. “If you and Mycroft broke up four months ago and yet you still came after me when he called, I can only assume he left you. However, he clearly hasn’t moved on so I can only deduct that the lingering emotions added to the events of the time suggest you broke up over my near-death. Why?” he asked seriously He narrowed his eyes at Greg. “I’m fairly certain controlling my life has nothing to do with another couple’s relationship, yet I cannot possibly work out what else could’ve caused the event.”

Greg chucked and shook his head. “Not your fault, Sherlock.” He cringed. “I said something horrible. Mycroft was upset, he was as unguarded as I’d ever seen him in public and he was taking it out on me. I should’ve just took it and let him go off, but he is particularly good at vicious remarks, therefore I found myself unable to hold my tongue.” He caught the confused look on Sherlock’s face and smiled sadly. “I know you won’t believe me but Mycroft butts into your life because he cares-“

“Rubbish, he stalks me because Mummy makes him,” Sherlock said flatly and Lestrade shook his head.

“He speaks to your mother about as much as you do.” Sherlock shot him a disbelieving look. “Sherlock, one day you will come to understand how much your brother loves you,” he said softly. He nodded. “If you want to know what happened, since your deductive skills seem to not include ‘human emotions’, it’s quite simple: You were still dying and Mycroft was terrified.” He looked at the horizon, smiling weakly. “You are the one thing in this world that Mycroft Holmes holds dear, Sherlock. You can’t see it from his side of it and I’m not defending his actions in your life, but since you were born I suspect, you are the most precious thing Mycroft has. He doesn’t care much for his mother, he has no friends, no life outside of his work, but he loves you more than you will probably ever know.” He looked Sherlock over, smiling sadly. “I just hope you can understand that someday.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Unlikely. _Sentiment_ ,” he half-sneered, though even Lestrade could tell it was forced.

Lestrade snorted. “You are not a sociopath, Sherlock-“ Sherlock started to argue and he cut him off. “You may be cold, you may be crass, but you aren’t a sociopath. Sociopaths cannot feel anything.” He looked at Sherlock with a small, knowing look. “You deny it all you want, but an American ‘falling’ out of your window twice after he hurt Mrs. Hudson suggests a great deal of ‘sentiment’,” he teased. He nodded at the door through which they could see John still giving his statement. “Sociopaths don’t have a best friend either,” he added. “He’s killed for you and I don’t doubt for a second you would kill for him.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “Did Mycroft-“

Lestrade chuckled. “I first met Mycroft that very night, Sherlock, and I knew about John shooting that man before I knew Mycroft existed. I may not be you, but I’m not an idiot,” he joked.

Sherlock just hummed. After a pause, during with they both took drags on their cigarettes, Sherlock sighed. “You’re wrong, you know?” he asked and Lestrade looked over at him. Sherlock’s brow was furrowed- a clear sign of frustration at not understanding something. “About me being the one thing Mycroft holds dear.” He lifted the fag to his mouth again. “About twenty minutes after the police got out to the field, Mycroft called me all in a panic. Baskerville reported the explosion and since we were there, the information quickly made its way back to him. He was positively frantic-“

Lestrade snorted. “Well I’m not surprised! You’d have followed that man if John hadn’t reminded you it was a mine field-“

“The first thing my brother said when I answered was ‘Is Gregory alright?’,” Sherlock interrupted. Greg’s heart stopped and- much to his alarm- he felt a lump growing in his throat. He let out a shaky breath and looked down at his lap, lips pursed as he clenched his free hand in his lap. “You said I am the only thing my brother holds dear, but I am here to inform you that he clearly loves you, Lestrade.” He looked at him curiously. “I may not follow on this ‘sentiment’ rubbish, but if you truly believe my brother cares about me above all else, what does it say that after an explosion, the first thing he asks is whether or not _you_ are alright?”

Lestrade swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath. He was interrupted from his thoughts as he saw John stand out of the corner of his eye. He saw how haggard the doctor looked through the window and turned to Sherlock. “Hey,” he nodded at John. “Look after him alright?” he asked softly. “I’ve been having flashbacks of a single terrorist attack every time I let my brain relax after this mess. I imagine poor John’s seen more explosions blowing people to bits than anybody ever should. This probably hasn’t done much for his next few weeks,” he said softly.

Sherlock glanced back at John and smiled faintly. “He’s stronger than you’d think. He’s such a _soldier_ that he has less nightmares when we’ve seen bad things than when we’ve not had a body in a while,” he said fondly.

Lestrade just chuckled in amusement. “Oh yes, no sentiment in you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, winking at him as he stood up and walked off, leaving Sherlock to meet John as he crossed the car park to where Sherlock was waiting for him.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
If Lestrade had known how things would end up, he would’ve done anything he could to prevent them.

The months following the events at Baskerville, Lestrade spoke with Mycroft four times. All of them were Sherlock related, but he had hope in what Sherlock had said. He hoped that someday, he and Mycroft could recover what they had before everything had fallen apart in one angry, spiteful diatribe. He knew in his heart that Mycroft was the one for him. Their relationship had never been the closest but it had been the most _fitting_ and he would never find that anywhere else. He would’ve given anything to have Mycroft in his life again…

But not this.

_As soon as Donovan and Anderson went behind his back and took their theories in Sherlock’s guilt higher than his own power, he shook the doubt he allowed to creep into his mind and called Mycroft. He suffered momentary doubt that Sherlock wasn’t all he seemed, but the memory of how alike he and his brother are rekindled his trust in Sherlock Holmes. As he paced in his office, watching and listening for anybody coming, he cursed the time it was taking to reach Mycroft._

_When Mycroft finally answered, he sounded stressed. “Detective Inspector, I am very busy. Could you possibly stop phoning my personal line-“_

_“Mycroft, Sherlock’s in trouble.”_

_Mycroft was silent before he heard him excusing himself from his meeting. “Alright, explain what he’s done that’s so important-“_

_“Not what he did, what I was unable to stop,” he said in a low voice, far from eager to be over heard. “Look, once the paperwork is approved, we’re heading over to arrest him-“_

_“You’ve done that before-“_

_Lestrade cursed. “Mycroft, this isn’t a joke!” he hissed. “Mycroft, some of my team has it in their heads he’s behind this kidnapping. They’ve convinced my superiors that Sherlock Holmes is a fraud who kidnapped children just to prove he was clever and they_ believe it _. I’m not arresting him, Mycroft, people above me are. You, however, have_ connections _. You have approximately twenty minutes before your brother is arrested for serious charges- PUBLICALLY arrested for serious charges- and I have no way of helping him this time, Myc!”_

_Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “Well then,” he said softly. “I’ll see what I can do. Just try and stop him from making a scene.” He took an audible breath. “Why do you trust that they aren’t right?” he asked and Lestrade chuckled humorlessly._

_“Because you to are just alike, Myc. Even if I didn’t believe in Sherlock, I know you better than I suspect anybody in the world does and I could never love a fraud,” he said weakly. He heard a voice and looked up. “Gotta go, gotta go!” he whispered, hanging up._

Spending the night on the search for Sherlock was something Lestrade couldn’t say he ever expected to do. Usually Sherlock showed up whenever he was most needed. It was more alarming, however, when he received a text from Mycroft telling him that he had lost Sherlock completely. CCTV couldn’t find him and neither could any of Mycroft’s ‘people’. He and John had gone completely off the grid and in their place, Mycroft had discovered a story about Sherlock being a fake was set to run the following day and he hadn’t managed to negotiate a halt to the presses yet. 

The following morning, Lestrade was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, his team wasn’t talking to him, and he had been taken to his office and told to get all of his necessary belongings to take home because he was on suspension until all of his cases with Sherlock were investigated. 

The world had come crashing down as he was preparing to leave.

_Lestrade was just putting on his coat when he heard a knock at the door. He scoffed. “May as well come in,” he said, turning to pick up the box off his desk that contained all of his personal items- including his gun box buried at the bottom- so he could leave._

_The door opened and Sally Donovan stood there, white as a sheet. “Sir-“_

_“Oh, now you show me some respect?” he sneered, only to frown when he saw a guilty look cross her face. “Sally?”_

_She bit her lip and looked down before glancing up. “Freak-“ Her breath caught and she cleared her throat. “I mean Sherlock Holmes… he’s dead,” she said with a flash of guilt across her face._

_Lestrade’s heart stopped. The box slipped from his hands and landed on the floor, tipping over and spilling its contents across the coarse industrial carpet. The world spun and he shook his head. “Sherlock- Sherlock’s what?” he asked in disbelief._

_She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. “Suicide. Just about fifteen minutes ago,” she said and his heart clenched painfully. He saw her remorse and finally understood. “I guess- I guess being proven a fake was too much for him. I guess he knew it would be out today and he couldn’t handle it. He was a fake,” she said firmly, nodding. “He didn’t leave a note but he was on the phone with his flat mate just before he jumped off of St. Bart’s. We guess he was confessing to the one person who believed in him before he leapt off-“_

_“Oh God, John,” he gasped, putting his hands in his hair, tugging. “Jesus Christ, poor John.”_

_She cringed. “I feel sorry for that bloke. He was standing in the square looking up at him, they say. Watched him jump. Another person’s life ruined by Sherlock Holmes-“_

_“SHUT UP!” he snarled, picking up his belongings, scooping them back into the box. He shoved past Sally, who followed him._

_“Sir-“_

_“I said SHUT. UP!” he shouted, not caring what sort of a scene he was making._

_“Hey, what is all this shouting?” Anderson asked, only to stop when he came out of the office to Greg’s left, where he had clearly been giving a statement. “Oh,” he said softly._

_Lestrade could barely restrain himself from hitting him. “I’m probably getting fired for this mess anyways and I HONESTLY don’t think I care anymore,” he spat, turning to look back at the both of them. He looked at the cubicles full of eyes on him and waved a hand. “Every single one of you are_ disgraceful _,” he hissed. “And you!” He turned back to Anderson and Donovan. “Sally, I’ll have you know the man that died- the one that_ your _accusations led to suicide- was NOT a fraud.” He shook his head, tears in his eyes. “I don’t care who calls me a liar, because Sherlock Holmes was NOT a fake. He was the most brilliant man any of you will ever know and you all called him a ‘freak’ for it. He did more for justice in this city than any of you and nobody will convince me he was a fraud.”_

_Donovan gave him an awkward, uneasy look. “Sir, he killed himself, that would suggest-“_

_“It would suggest he saw no way out of something he couldn’t_ prove _that YOU accused him of!” he cried, absolutely enraged. “None of you KNEW him! He was practically a kid when I took him into my home, looked after him until he was okay to handle himself, and I’ve known him for the past_ nine years _. As stupid as you all seem to think I am, I would’ve known if he wasn’t what he seemed to be within the first few years, don’t you think?!” he asked, then felt a darkly vicious thrill of smugness when he saw doubt flicker across several faces. “And now it’s too late, isn’t it? I can count on one hand the number of people who ever gave a damn about him, but every single one of us loved him like family and now he’s_ dead _and it’s on your hands,” he said, looking directly at Anderson and Donovan. “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. Thirty-six years of being called a ‘freak’ for being different would’ve probably driven any of you to jump, so bravo. Good job. Bullied a brilliant young man into throwing himself off a building.” He saw guilt etched into every line of every face in the office and smiled grimly. “And you all get to live with that.”_

It hadn’t been until he got out to his car that he stopped and realized someone would be going to tell Mycroft. 

_He looked at his watch and saw it had only been about twenty minutes since-_

_Well, it had been about twenty minutes. He knew Mycroft was at home. It would’ve taken longer to get through to him without a line to his private number so, unless his people found out, Mycroft might not have even known yet. Suddenly, all Lestrade could think about was how much Mycroft would need him. He didn’t stop for a moment to consider that Mycroft might not see him or might not want to see him. He just knew that Mycroft had devoted most of his adult life to looking after his brother- even if the means brought new meaning to the words ‘big brother’- and his baby brother had just taken his own life._

_When he got to Mycroft’s house, he was surprised to be let in immediately by Mycroft’s right-hand pretty girl, Anthea. He doubted anybody knew her real name but she was the one that Mycroft was most often accompanied by. Today, however, she looked pale and unsettled. “Detective Inspector,” she said weakly, nodding as he walked in._

_Lestrade smiled sadly. “Where is he?” he asked and she nodded down the hall. “Office?” he asked and she nodded again._

_“I’m sorry,” she managed, her usually tone-less voice somewhat shaking. He sighed._

_“So am I,” he all but whispered as he started down the long, plush carpeted hallway. When he got to Mycroft’s office, he knocked lightly before opening the door. He walked in and was confused to see Mycroft sitting at his desk, having a cup of tea as if he hadn’t a care in the world._

_Mycroft nearly dropped his cup when he saw Lestrade. “Detective Inspector?” he asked, setting the cup down before it spilled all over his suit. “What are you-“ He paused and collected himself. “Can I help you?” he asked._

_Lestrade’s heart sunk suddenly. “Anthea’s been holding your calls,” he realized breathlessly._

_Mycroft raised an eyebrow curiously. “She could have been. I had a bit of sleep and a shower just before now…” His eyes searched Lestrade’s face and he froze. “What’s happened?” he asked suddenly._

_Lestrade felt sick. His stomach was in knots and his blood cold. He did_ not _want to be the one to tell Mycroft. However, he knew that Anthea must’ve known. She must’ve realized he would be there and didn’t want to let anybody else see him weak. Lestrade smiled sadly. “Loyal to a fault,” he whispered to himself._

_“What?” Mycroft asked, looking confused._

_Lestrade walked over, every step feeling like a mile to his leaden feet. He crossed the office and circled the desk. He squatted down beside Mycroft’s chair to look him in the eyes on his own level. Mycroft looked thoroughly confused and somewhat alarmed. Greg closed his eyes and swallowed around the lump in his throat before reaching out to prize the hand clenching on the arm of Mycroft’s leather chair away and curl his fingers around Mycroft’s long, delicate fingers. “Myc, I don’t know any way to start but to say that I never wanted to say this to anybody,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. He looked up into Mycroft’s eyes and saw fear unlike anything he suspected Mycroft had ever felt before. “Sherlock-“ His voice cracked and he swallowed, blinking back tears. “Sherlock is dead, Mycroft.”_

Mycroft’s reaction was one that broke Lestrade’s heart. His hand clenched painfully around Lestrade’s and he shook his head. “No, that’s preposterous. I would’ve heard immediately-“

“Anthea was pale and shaking when she let me in, Myc,” he said gently. 

Mycroft just shook his head again. “He’s too smart for that. He’d never let Moriarty or his men catch him. Nobody can catch Sherlock!” he denied.

Greg let out a weak laugh. “That’s for damn sure. He got out of police custody,” he said, then sobered up. “He killed himself,” he said weakly. Mycroft jolted, head flying up as he looked at Lestrade. “He- he jumped off the roof of Bart’s. I don’t know the details, I’d been suspended so I only heard because Donovan came to tell me that- that about forty minutes ago Sherlock threw himself off the roof of the hospital.” He cringed. “They think he was confessing to being a fraud to John because-“ He sniffled, swallowing hard as tears welled in his eyes. “He was talking on the phone before jumping.”

Mycroft just took a breath. “But… but he isn’t- he’s not a fraud. Why would he-“

“I know he’s not, I believe in him still,” Lestrade said firmly. He reached up to touch Mycroft’s face. “But whatever the case… he’s gone, Myc.”

After a momentary pause, Mycroft raised his eyes to meet Lestrade’s before immediately deflating, slumping forward as he was overcome with tears. “Oh God,” he choked out and Greg felt his heart break once more as Mycroft’s shoulders shook. “ _Gregory_ ,” he whimpered and Greg immediately fell from his crouch to his knees in front of Mycroft, pulling him into a fierce hug. As Mycroft’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands fisting in his jacket, he just held Mycroft, one hand around his back and the other around the back of his neck.

“I know, love, I know,” he whispered, holding Mycroft tight as if he alone could hold Mycroft together.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
It had been over an hour since Mycroft had been reduced to tears. In that hour, he hadn’t spoken a word. When he’d finished weeping in Greg’s arms, they had relocated to the couch, where Mycroft had immediately curled up against Lestrade’s chest, resting his head along the crook of his neck. He seemed to _need_ to cling to Greg as they lay there, curled up together as they lay on the couch. Greg had lain back against the arm and held Mycroft, stroking his back soothingly, occasionally pressing kisses to his hair. He knew Mycroft’s despair was heavy.

“What of John?” Mycroft whispered so softly Lestrade nearly missed it. Mycroft hadn’t spoken in so long, however, that he heard it loud and clear.

Greg sighed. “I heard he was on the street looking up at him. On the phone with him… when he… well, when it happened,” he said softly.

Mycroft shuddered. “Dear God, that poor man,” he breathed. “I just… I can’t understand _why_ he would do that,” he admitted. He sighed and looked up at Lestrade, who met his eyes. He saw so much pain in Mycroft’s eyes that it hurt. “What could drive him to not only take his own life, but to make the person he cared about the most _watch_?” he asked.

Greg shook his head. “I can’t imagine why, Myc,” he admitted. “I know he wasn’t a fraud. I can’t imagine Sherlock _caring_ what others thought of him like that.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It had to be something more. Suicide isn’t Sherlock’s way. It had to be… well, I can’t imagine,” he said weakly. He pressed his face into Lestrade’s shirt again. “Maybe something worse is coming from Moriarty’s network and he didn’t want to be here to see it happen.”

Lestrade groaned. “God knows that’s the last thing this city needs,” he said, then smiled sadly. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’m probably fired.”

Mycroft looked up. “What?” he asked and Lestrade nodded. “What for?”

Greg chortled dryly. “I’m suspended pending all of my cases with Sherlock be reviewed. I brought him in and now that everybody thinks he’s a fraud, all of the cases have to be reviewed for misconduct.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, love. I don’t think I want anything to do with it anymore. My own team went behind my back to report Sherlock as a suspect in kidnapping those children and then he turns around and takes his life.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know how I’m ever meant to work with people who drove someone to this. How can I look them in the eye when- the way I see it- their actions exacerbated the conditions of whatever caused someone I cared for ending his life?”

Mycroft lifted his hand to cup Lestrade’s face in his hand. “I am glad it was you who told me,” he admitted. He sniffled, eyes tearing again. “I cannot imagine having gone through this alone,” he whispered, voice tight.

Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned into Mycroft’s touch. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this at all, love.”

“Don’t we all,” Mycroft whispered softly. He stroked a finger down Lestrade’s face and smiled sadly, tears in his eyes. “I miss you,” he whispered and Greg opened his eyes.

“I know,” he said, tightening his arms around Mycroft. “I know, Myc, I just also knew it would only put you off to come begging you to have me back.”

Mycroft shook his head. “You would’ve waited until I came looking? I’m shocked you didn’t give up long ago.”

Lestrade opened his eyes and looked up into Mycroft’s. “I love you, Myc. I’d wait forever if need be,” he said simply.

Mycroft clenched his eyes shut. “God, I love you, too, Gregory. I was so stupid to stay away for so long, I just didn’t think you would want me anymore. I kept waiting for you to move on, but you never did.”

“I’ll be waiting for you until the end, love. And I’ll still be here for you no matter how long it takes for you to come back to me,” he said, kissing his head. 

Mycroft sniffled. “I’m never letting you go again, my dear,” he said, voice strained. “Because I need you now more than I’ve ever needed anybody. I can’t imagine going through this alone,” he whimpered and Greg clutched him closer, shushing him gently.

“Then I’m here, love. I’m here,” he promised, holding Mycroft through a fresh wave of tears.


End file.
